


I'll Meet You on Wednesday

by Elina Jokela (astrofag)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Anxiety, Bulimia, Death, Depression, M/M, Marijuana, Medication, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paranoia, Past Abuse, Past Drug Use, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Torture, Scars, Self-Harm, Sleep Deprivation, Starvation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-25 21:30:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10772820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrofag/pseuds/Elina%20Jokela
Summary: Alfred's step-parents take him to a new town to start school for the first time. They are all concerned for Alfred because of his dark and troubled past, but with continuous problems and a lasting mental strain, will Alfred be able to prove that he can handle it? And also, what happens when he meets someone whom he feels a connection with? Will he be able to save himself?





	1. Monsters, Ghouls, and Other Pretty Things

_ Bludgeoning.  _

The word provokes less emotion than the act itself, which is saying a lot, seeing as how the only thing you feel during is extreme fear, which, in my opinion, is not an emotion, but merely an intense form of thought. Yet, thoughts invoke emotions. Perhaps, then, it is quite the feeling. Well, what I am actually trying to say is much less complex. What I am saying is, the word ‘bludgeoning’ sounds more like a statement marked beneath the cause of death section on a legal document. At least, that’s the only place I’ve heard of it. 

_ July 21, 1983 hearing in the Delarose Courthouse, Southeastern San Francisco: The Case of the Circo en los Bosques. _ The word first came up during the judge’s listing of the,  _ er _ , victims. Victim 224-- no name, no identity. Unknown Vic 218. Died by a bludgeoning to the head following sexual assault on numerous counts. The word was brought up again, notably, about 52 more times. Of course, if they had found them all, the number would have been many times greater, but let’s not focus on that. The important thing is that, I, Alfred F. Jones of New York, New York, USA, am one of the few that survived Circo en los Bosques, aka, The Circus of the Woods. 

 

_ September 1, 1987 -- a house across Pleasant View High School in Crescent, California.  _

I don’t understand what my stepmother means by the ‘irony’ of the school’s name. The town seems nice, at least in my eyes. But I suppose my eyes have seen quite a lot now. She sat beside me in the car just an hour or so before now, cursing at something beside the dash-- perhaps the GPS, I don’t know. We pull into the driveway a few minutes after the hour passes, and we sit in the stopped car for a moment. She turns to me, eyes shiny and glossed-over with concern.

“Are you sure you can go to public school, dear?” Her accent is more noticeable for some reason. Stronger. It makes her sound a bit more motherly. 

I nod. “Yeah,” I shrug. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.” 

“You think?” She sits back in her chair and adjusts her grip on the steering wheel. Her brow furrows in confusion, or bewilderment. She’s silent for some time, leaving me, staring ahead at the garage door outside blankly, and her, thinking deep thoughts in the tension.   
I think about supper, and what Jean-Pronounced-Like-John will make to eat. 

“Am I doing good? Like, as a mother-figure?” 

I shrug again. “I think so.” It’s not like I can compare it to anything else. 

“Okay,” My step-mother says. “Okay,” She repeats. She lets out a deep sigh. “Let’s go in, then, why don’t we?” 

We both open our doors and step onto the paved driveway outside. I shut the door behind me and look up at the house. It was a two-story-- three, if you count the attic, but nobody counts attics. It has loose shingles on the roof and a tree planted next the walkway that looks as if it will fall at any minute, but it feels alright. The tree doesn’t bring any anxiety, and the shingles look semi-fine, so I am unbothered. I start onto the sidewalk and approach the front door. My step-mother fumbles and scrambles for her keys in her blessed-by-God dress pockets. After a few tries with the wrong keys-- keys I noticed were wrong, but didn’t really bother to say anything about at the time-- she finally found the right one: the only silver key in the gold bunch, painted green on top during a DIY project attempt a month before. She said something about “addressing the key-issue” and then laughed about something I couldn’t decipher. My step-mother is weird.

She puts right-key into the slot, turns, and eventually opens the door. We step past the threshold and into the interior. The first thing I notice are the morphing faces of the artwork that hangs on the walls. I shudder. One glares at me. 

My step-mother comments about the lack of heat and moves to the living room to fix it. I don’t feel it, but I would as soon as it was time to shower. I would have to take two layers off of eight to do that. I look up the stairs and think about asking Miss. Hypersensitive if my room was upstairs, but figure I can find out myself. I press a foot onto the first step cautiously, causing it to creak loudly. I wince and pray to God that my room is not upstairs. Step-mother sticks her head out from the living room. 

“Your room’s on this level, to the right of the storage closet, dear.” 

I let out a relieved breath. My prayers have been answered. 

I go down another hallway, trying to remember the house’s blueprint I had memorized in the car earlier, and eventually find my room after opening seven or so doors. I look around. It’s bland, but not empty. The bed is already made, and my clothes are already in my closet, likely thanks to Jean-Pronounced-Like-John, aka, my step-father coming to the house earlier. 

I sit on my bed and move my body up and down to test the durability. The bed frame creaks and the mattress springs whine, but not loud enough to bother me much. I relax for a moment and lay my head of the bedside table with a huff. The comfortability doesn’t last long, and my chest begins to hurt, but luckily, my step-mom comes in with Sorry! and a smile on her face. 

“I’ll take green?” 

“Red,” I mumble, and climb down to join her. 

 

My step-father makes bean casserole for supper. It is apart of his mission to get me to try  _ everything _ . It is working, so far, and I have been liking the food, so far, but that was to be expected. After all, I had been used to bread and small portions of soup or oatmeal until about a year ago. There was hospital food, too, but nobody considers that to be real food in my family. I guess I lived on nothing for three years, then.

I stick a fork-full of the casserole into my mouth and my step-dad asks how it tastes. I mumble “good” between a mouth-full of mushroom and onion. 

“So, what did you two do today?” My step-father asks me, in all proper Danish manner. My British step-mother snarfs a quarter of her plate and downs a glass of wine in a matter of two seconds before slamming said glass onto the table and burping. She looks at me expectantly. I swallow another small bite. 

“We played Sorry,” I say. “Then Chutes and Ladders. Then Checkers.” I play with my food for a few seconds. “She doesn’t know chess.” 

Drunk Step-Mother holds her glass out for a second filling. “More, please, love.” Compliant Step-Father complies. 

“That sounds nice,” Step-dad replies not-at-all-dismissively. 

“Did you know Alfred has a fascination with Biology?” Drunk Step-Mother asks step-dad. 

_ I told you guys two months ago. _

“Really? I didn’t know that.” 

_ You gave me a book about it. _

“Yeah, surprising, isn’t it?”

_ It was in the court notice. My therapist told you guys to talk to me about it. You did. _

“Do you think you want to join Advanced Biology in high school, Alfred?” Step-dad asks me as he pours stepmom another drink.

_ That’s not a class.  _ “I guess,” I shrug. I stick my fork into my food again. I wonder how that would look on a job application.  _ Alfred F. Jones, took Advanced Biology in high school, despite forementioned class not even existing. This man can make something out of nothing! What an achievement!  _ Boy, wouldn’t the employers be all over hiring me. Of course, there’s the sex thing too. That could put a dent on it.

I stand up without excusing myself. My step-parents don’t call after me. I need to take a shower.

 

I am down to my last layer of clothes: a black t-shirt and legging-type pants. I inspect the bruises and scars on my arm and pick at my stitches. I have gained weight. My stomach looks like a hill and peaks out under my t-shirt like a beer gut. I flick it, and waves of fat move up my body in ripples. I begin to feel like that blueberry girl from  _ Charlie and The Chocolate Factory. _

I open my medicine cabinet and grab a box of razors. I take one out, careful not to injure my already-injured hand and set the box on the sink. My voices laugh at the irony. The first cut is a bit ragged-- I am bad at breaking pudgy skin. I hear laughing from the kitchen. My step-father told a good joke. 

The second cut is a bit better and I watch the blood empty in a clean stream. A drop of crimson falls on the tile below and I move to stand on our overturned bath mat. My stomach growls and I press my lips together. I can only do two more before I run to the toilet and throw up. Mission accomplished. My stomach sits a bit flatter. I don’t take a shower that night.

 

Let’s play a game! It’s called: How Many Pills can Alfred Down Without Killing Himself? The answer: two, because that’s what the doctor ordered, and I am too paranoid and anxious to test it. 

I cannot sleep. I lay in my bed and wish to be one of those people that sleep with their eyes open. I am not. 

I struggle between wanting to close my eyes, for the sake of the shadows making shapes in my dark room and keeping my eyes open to look out for monsters and shadow-shapes. Then again, there was sleep, which I haven’t had for two days, taking out that brief, 10-minute nap in the car ride to my new house, which was interrupted by Excited Step-Mother showing me a pelican because “By God, they never come this far inland!” 

She talked about it for an hour or so after that. 

I think about taking another pill, but cannot because I suddenly can’t move. Sleep paralysis: a possible side effect of my antidepressant medication. My mind does a facepalm, and I no longer want to take another pill. I try to cry once the episode ends, but nothing comes out. 

I am dry. 

  
_ End of Day _


	2. Artificial Birthday

I wake up Wednesday morning five minutes after I initially fall asleep. My step-father comes into my room with my step-mother banging two saucepans together, pulling me from still nothing immediately. My step-mom hands me a glass of orange juice and a muffin with a lit candle stuck through the top. Oh, right. Today is the day we decided was my birthday.

They tell me to make a wish and hold out the muffin. I blow out the light and they cheer. I wished for at least 3 hours of sleep. 

The hour of celebration ends quicker than it began. Just seconds after blowing out the candle, my step-mom laughs and says, heartily, mind you, “Time to get ready for school!” 

My newly-found feeling of  _ slight _ happiness disappears almost immediately. I sigh. Happy birthday.

The celebration, this year, was at least longer than last year’s. Last year, on the very day my now step-parents bought,  _ er,  _ I mean,  _ adopted  _ me, they asked the lady owning the orphanage when my birthday was. She said it wasn't known. Alarmed, they asked if I had ever  _ celebrated _ my birthday. She said no. This is when they decided to adopt me and deem that day my ‘birthday’. I was too doped out of antidepressants to object.

And so, on this day, I am now a year old. Mazeltov! Toutes nos félicitations! What an occasion. 

I get ready as fast as I can, in order to avoid the sight of my bloated stomach and inflated arms. If I was in charge of my meals, I would never allow myself to gain so much weight, but I really didn't have a choice. At least, now, I have more of a choice than my time in Heartland. They fed me through a tube there. 

I decide to skip breakfast and wait for eight inside my locked bathroom. My step-mother knocks on the door at about 7:30 and I tell her that I'm going to the bathroom. I grab a razor and cut into my thigh to pass the time. 

I eventually throw up again, twice-- no, three times-- four-- and manage to weigh myself on my scale. 189. I stick my fingers down my throat immediately. My wrist earns another cut. 

I leave the bathroom at around 8:10 and meet my step-mother in the kitchen. I try to get out of going to school. She isn't convinced. She sends me outside.

The two of us walk into the garage so I can say goodbye to my step-dad. He looks up from the car he is trying to fix. 

“Leaving already?” He asks me. I am silent. Step-mother answers for me.

“Yup. It’s time for ‘lil Al’s first day of school!” She pats my shoulder comfortingly. “You ready?” I avert my eyes with a shrug. My step-dad points his wrench at me and uses his tongue to move his toothpick to the side of his mouth. 

“Don’t disrespect your mother, boy. Answer her.” 

I shoot a glare at him and continue to remain silent.  _ Bite me.  _

Exasperated Step-Mom takes a deep breath to break the tension. “Okay!” She grips my forearm and pulls me toward the open garage door. “It’s time for school! Let’s go!” 

She leads me outside and tells me that I should go to school. I start toward the street to cross, but she quickly stops me. I turn back towards her.

“Alfred, I need you to try to act…” She picks at a skin tag on her palm. “...Normal… At school, I mean.” Bitchy Step-Mother notices me staring and sighs exasperatedly. “Don’t give me that look, you know what I mean! You just act so freaky sometimes-- I just think you shouldn’t be like that in school. You want friends, right?” I bite my lip. “That’s what I thought. Just take my advice and you’ll be fine. Now, go on. Class is waiting.” 

 

The school doesn’t look as bad as it does on the outside, fortunately. It’s better, but not by much. On the outside, the school could be easily compare to a prison. The only vegetation on the property are dead fruit trees surrounded by poison ivy, and where concrete isn’t, thick mud is, and the playground, sitting on pavement, is painted in multiple dullen colors and only exists as a broken swingset and a ladder-less metal slide. But perhaps it is just a paradise in disguise.

Nope.

I said before that the inside was better, but that is only because of the indoor heating. You see, despite being in California, Crescent seems to be cursed, as the place has a knack for being cold and gross. Because of this, I assume that the school doesn’t have air conditioning. Lovely. I love this school. I’m so glad I came here instead of taking online courses. Thanks, step-dad! You are  _ truly  _ intelligible-- and I don’t mean that sarcastically, I swear. 

I find my way to the office quickly, but only because it is the first room I come across upon entry. The secretary sitting at the front desk tells me to wait for the principal and I sit down in one of the five plastic chairs. I sit down in the yellow one, but only because the other ones are occupied. 

The red chair is occupied by a scowling boy-- probably a student caught smoking pot, or doing some other type of drug-- dressed in all black, including a spiked dog collar, but I never judge off of looks. I assume he is a druggy because of how red his eyes are. Tsk, tsk. Wouldn’t want kids to relieve themselves of their problems-- no, no. Bad student. Bad.

In the green chair sat an adult. Likely an angry mother coming to see the principal and accuse them of doing something to her child. Who knows. Parents are annoying like that sometimes. Maybe Goth Kid is her son. 

The blue chair harbors a younger, bald kid wearing a hospital mask who coughs every time somebody blinks, and sitting in the purple chair, is some angry albino who looks as if he’d rather be anyplace but here. I relate to you very much, Albino Kid. 

Goth Kid notices me staring and glowers at me. 

“The hell do you want, stripes,” He growls. I look away.  _ Stripes.  _ How creative. I pull my jacket sleeve down further to hide my scars. 

“Alfred Jones?” I look up. A large old man with dyed hair and a moustache scans the room for my face. I raise my hand and stand up to catch his attention. He jumps at the sight of me. “Ah,” He looks at me up and down. “You must be Alfred.” I nod. “Well, I’m Mr. Perkins, the guidance councilor. The principal is busy with a student now, so I must take you.” 

Just then, a voice from behind an open door calls for a student to “come speak to the principal”. I stare at Mr. Belly. He shifts uncomfortably. 

“Come on.” 

 

“Says here you’ve never been to school…?” He looks up from my papers with a shocked look on his face. “Not even home school? Why is that?” I can hear his inner voice ask,  _ how did he even get in here?  _

I don’t answer him, but yet, he waits for me to speak. I hate silence, so five minutes after he initially asks the question, I feel I have no other choice but to answer. 

“Family troubles.” No, that’s cliche. Think of something better. “Mental issues.” Mr. Belly buys it.

“Well, that explains your time at Heartland.. Tell me, why were you placed there?” 

“It’s a private matter,” I say with a shrug. Mr. Belly gives me a look that says “really”? I hate him already.

“Come on, I’m a guidance counselor. It’s my job to get involved in personal matters.” 

_ Just fuck off..  _ I tug at the bandages around my hand and Mr. Belly notices. 

“What are those for?” 

I stand up. “Are we done here? Can I have my schedule?” He stares at me for a moment with somewhat amused eyes and I feel the urge to punch him across the face. Luckily, I don’t have to. He hands me my schedule, and I am out of there faster than The Flash. But before I leave, I hear him call from behind me.

“Good luck, Alfred!” 

I seriously want to kill him.

 

My first class is geography: the class that is the same all around the world! Wait, no, that’s math. Wait, wouldn’t geography be the same too? I mean, it’s the study of the Earth itself. Maybe it isn’t because of North Korea. The leader there probably doesn’t want his citizens to discover what mountains are and leave to visit them. Understandable, I suppose. Mountains are great. If I were a dictator with no mountains, I’d hide their existence from my people too. 

I’m getting off-track. Excuse me.

So, my first class is geography with a Mr. Einsweiler. I hear from students gossiping in the hallway that he is a pervert. Stares at girls’ bosoms. Great shame, old man. Your ancestors disprove.

I come into the class a minute or so late and receive some stares from wide-eyed students and a frown from the teacher-- likely Mr. Einsweiler. He will now be known as Bald Mistake, because there’s no way the school hired him on purpose. 

Bald Mistake looks me up and down and raises an eyebrow. “You are?” 

I glance nervously at the other students and clench my jaw. “Alfred-Alfred Jones?” I say the words almost inaudibly. 

“What?” Bald Mistake stares at me with eyes that clearly say,  _ freak, freak.  _ The students giggle from behind me.  _ What a freak, freak. _

“Alfred Jones?” I say louder. Bald Mistake checks his paper and nods. 

“Find a seat.” 

The student’s eyes follow me as I do what I am told.  _ Obey, obey. Like a sheep. Freak sheep, do what you are told.  _ The whispers continue and one kid slaps my ass as I pass. More laughs. I feel like crying. 

_ Baby _

_ Freak _

_ Obey, obey.  _

_ Like a fucking sheep. _

I walk too far and run into a student. I stumble backwards and he stands up, clearly angry. The other students ooh and aah and the student asks for an apology. I try to give one, but I can’t speak, I can only stutter.

I need more meds.

“Have something to say, punk?!” His words echo in my mind and I tremble. A girl stands up from the corner of the room and shouts that I “pissed my pants”. I don’t know what she means and I am trembling and the boy growls at me and I whimper and say sorry, but he doesn’t listen. Suddenly, a force hits me square in the jaw and I fall to the ground, enveloped in a cold blackness.

 

I wake up some time later in new pants and laying on a creaky bed. I am in a white room and it is empty. I am disoriented and a voice inside my head tells me it’s time for meds. I reach for the container in my pocket, but it’s gone. Reality sets in and I begin to panic.

_ White room, white room, white room, not again, not again!  _

I sit up in my episode, breathing heavily, and notice I am not tied down. I look around at my surroundings and realize that the room isn’t white, but brown with blue carpet. I take a deep breath and assess. I assume that this is the nurse’s office, but I’m not certain. I look over at a desk in the corner of the room and see what looked to be a student ID. I get off my bed and walk over to it in uncoordinated movements. I nearly fall once or twice but I manage to get over to the desk in time before I collapse. I rest my hand on the tabletop and balance myself. 

I look at the student ID. The picture is of a stone-faced boy with messy blond hair and eyebrows the size of my feet. His eyes are a bright green-- like a chartreuse, or something.  _ Arthur Kirkland.  _ He looks like he’s glaring at me. I turn the ID over.

The door suddenly opens then and that very boy opens the door. He sighs and freezes once he meets my eyes.    
“Tsk,” He looks me over before turning and calling out the door, “He’s awake.” 

He walks into the room without paying me any mind. I watch him walk over and sit on the cot I had once laid on. An older woman comes in just moments later wearing a pantsuit of sorts. She must be the nurse. We’ll call her Scarface. 

“Glad to see you awake,” She says, and sits at her desk. “I'm Nurse Casey Woods. You were brought here after you passed out in your geography class.” 

I put my hand on my head and feel a hill of skin erect from my head.

“How did I get here…?” 

“I brought you here, asshole.” I look over at the boy sitting on the cot. His eyebrows are drawn together and he looks as if he’s judging me. That, or I was just seeing things from my lack of medication. I went with the latter. “You’re welcome,” He says with a sneer.

I stare at him for a moment before turning to ask the nurse what happened to my pants.

“They were, er, wet… We’re washing them now.” It took me a moment to understand what she meant.  _ Oh.  _

We sit in silence. The boy, or, I guess, Arthur, begins to get impatient and drums his fingers on his thigh. The nurse just stares at me. I sigh.

“I should go if nothing’s wrong, then, I guess.” 

The nurse nods and excuses me. I leave the nurse’s office and pull a roll of bandages from my back pocket. My hands need re-wrapped. 

I am inside the restroom, doing so, when Arthur shoves the bathroom door open and approaches me. I watch him with confused eyes. 

“What are you--”

“What are these?” He pulls out my medicine bottle from his pocket. My mouth falls open. 

I reach for the container. “How did you find--”

“They were in your pocket. You know that’s illegal, right? These are technically drugs, they should be kept in the office.” I snatch the bottle from his hand and glare at him, eyes flaming.

“They’re mine.” 

“What do you even use them for?” He demands. He points at the bottle with an accusing finger. “Those are psych meds. What, do you use them to get high?” 

I pop one in my mouth and swallow. “It’s none of your business. Leave me alone.” I finish wrapping my hand and wrist and turn to leave, but he follows me. All throughout the hall, he continues asking questions. It takes all of the strength I have not to punch him in the face. 

Once we get to the front door, the bell rings, but he still doesn’t leave. We stare at each other for a few moments-- a battle of the wits. It’s clear we both distaste each other, but he isn’t backing down. I have no time for this. 

“I’m crazy,” I say. “Psycho. These keep me from murdering everybody in the school.” Arthur raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. I keep going. “That’s how I got them, you know? I used to go to an insane asylum for killing a man.” 

“Oh yeah?” He challenges. “Which one?”

“Heartland,” I answer automatically. Arthur frowns. “Don’t believe me? I’m sure you’re a teacher’s pet. Look at my record. It’s there.” 

And I leave. Just like that.

I was surprised at how easily I lied. Well, semi-lied. I’m not homicidal, and I didn’t get into Heartland  _ because  _ I killed a man. However, I did kill someone. But that doesn’t matter now. I look over at the clock posted on one of the school’s walls.  _ 10:30.  _ It’s still quite some time before school ends, but I have no intention of coming back. I might even just leave for good. I ponder this as I walk toward the street. 

No, I won’t leave. I’d be put on house arrest if I did that. Maybe, instead, I’ll just stay away until night fell. Yes, that sounds reasonable. And so, I put this plan into motion, and with no thought of my step-parents, or school, I leave campus. 


End file.
